One Step Back, Two Steps Forward
by CitronPresse
Summary: It's very hard not to like the person who gave you the second best sex of your life. Post season 5. Erica and Mark run into each other at a conference and find some unexpected closure. One shot. References to Erica/Callie and Mark/Lexie.


A/N: written for wicked_joy on livejournal; many thanks to Escapismrocks for the read-through.

* * *

"Dr. Hahn."

She eyes him, one eyebrow lifted caustically, trying to find the innuendo before it bites her, but none comes. He just stands there like a fellow professional – no grin, no eye-twinkling, no predatory vibe. It's disconcerting.

"Dr. Sloan." She gives a tight smile and holds out her hand. He shakes it, his grasp firm but subtly tired. "What are you doing here?"

"Sudden deafness following cardiopulmonary bypass," he says.

Erica scans her conference program. "Who's the speaker?" she asks, then finds the entry. "You?"

He shrugs, then there's the ghost of a grin. "Want to watch?" he asks.

She hesitates. She's tempted – it's a boring conference and she's intrigued, despite herself, and although she hardly lets herself admit this anymore, nostalgic for Seattle. In the end, she shrugs back and says, "Okay."

The presentation is surprisingly enlightening. If she didn't know him, she'd probably be impressed.

* * *

She sips her glass of Cabernet Sauvignon as he drinks his second scotch a little slower than the first. They discussed his presentation on the way to the bar and now they've run out of things to say.

Except, that is, for the one subject that hangs between them and that nobody seems to want to broach. But eventually they have to talk about Callie – she's really all they have in common.

"How is she?" Erica eventually makes herself say.

He takes another drink, then turns to look at her. His eyes are full of conflict – intense and shadowed at the same time and she finds it hard to look away.

"Callie?" he asks. It's a confirmation more than a question and she nods. "She got over you. That's what people do, right?"

There's a kind of _c'est la vie_ weariness in his voice that draws her interest. "Do you think so?"

"No," he says. He doesn't elaborate and she doesn't probe.

They carry on drinking. Being together gets easier, comfortable, even playful as alcohol and reminiscence do their work. They laugh at each other's jokes (tactfully ignoring any unintended wryness), play a little pool (she wins best of three) and it's nice. Nicer than she expected.

* * *

I'm a lesbian," she protests, coming almost close to giggling as he swarms over her against the wall in the damp street outside the bar. He smells of scotch and maleness but, strangely, it doesn't repulse her. He pulls back and looks at her. She makes her eyes wide with irony and stares back at him. "Remember?" she teases.

"Sleep with me anyway." He drawls it close to her ear, his shoulder pressed against hers, his eyes directing towards the ground, then meeting hers for a moment, waiting for the brush-off.

They are both surprised when it doesn't come.

* * *

He squeezes her thigh, runs his hand along her pelvis, pausing a little to massage the slight excess of flesh that lines her hips, then he kisses her hip bone, his hand slipping between her legs to find the wetness that isn't yet there.

There is a part of her, recalled from her experience with men she only half desired, that wants to tell him it doesn't matter. Wet her with his mouth, put on a condom and get it over with. He's hard, not fully but getting there, and really he might as well just get what he came for.

But then there's an extra caress that makes her seek out his eyes and she sees pleasure in them, pleasure brought on by her. He is quieter, gentler, more in tune with her needs than she could ever have guessed. If he were someone she loved, she thinks she might feel cared for. She feels that little rush inside, that little bit of heat, and when he grins lazily at her she knows his fingers found it too.

He pulls her down next to him and they kiss, soft at first, considerate on his part, as though he's giving her an out. But the heat builds, the little rush increasing. When her tongue finds his, his mouth crushes hers, warm and bruising and filled with longing and a kind of desperation.

A moment of regret floats through her mind: she was wrong to dismiss him as crass. He's not. He's like her. He wants kindness but he doesn't know how to ask. She wonders how she failed to see past his defenses and thinks it's because her own were erected so high and so sturdily.

He breathes out against her and her neck flushes hot. She finds herself suddenly aching for him as he trails kisses down her body from her breasts to her stomach. It doesn't matter now, man or woman. It's just the connection. Body on body, hers wants his and she gasps, groans even when he butts his nose into her short, curling hair and sweetly circles her clit with his tongue.

She relaxes into it, shuddering a little, stretching into her haunches to feel him better.

Then there's a certain sweep, a certain flick, a certain order to it that's so unique and yet so familiar and she intakes her breath with a new rush, a much less pleasant one that is centered on her heart.

It makes her cry.

"I'm flattered," his voice vibrates against her, "but if I were you I'd save the crying for the good part."

He looks up, the smirk she associates with him spread over his face. She is about to lash out. Her moment of regret for calling him crass? So misplaced. But as soon as he sees her face and the pain and tears she can't contain, his expression changes.

"Erica?" he says. "Hey . . . Ssshh. We don't have to . . . I just . . . " He moves onto his side and slides up the bed. "Shit, I'm sorry . . . you should've told me what you like. I should've asked."

When he takes her hand, she lets him. He's comforting – large and male and there and once again his gentleness surprises her.

"Callie . . ." he begins, then trails off helplessly.

She thinks he's about to say something about Callie being the only other lesbian he's slept with and it was okay with _her_, and, if she were capable, she might even laugh. But he's provided her with speech, the ability to name where it hurts and she nods. "Callie," she manages to say, before a sob swallows up her throat. "Callie did," she points awkwardly downwards, then retracts her hand, "_that_."

For a second, he doesn't understand. Then his eyes register comprehension, followed by embarrassment. "Yeah," he exhales, not quite looking at her. He dips his head for a moment. "It's called the Sloan Method."

"The —?" She can't bring herself to finish and she knows her mouth is hanging open in shock. It's the last thing she knows before she turns into a mess as she begins to choke on a mixture of almost hysterical laughter and weeping that she cannot stop.

He holds her. She leans against him, juddering against his body. He talks to her and places small kisses in her hair.

* * *

Ten minutes have passed without noise or movement and Erica softly says, "Thank you," and squeezes Mark's hand.

He brushes her shoulder with the scruff on his chin. "Thing is, though — Callie? She was just the apprentice."

She knows she ought to hate this. But she's past all inhibition now and, God help her, that voice, in her ear is turning her on. She raises an eyebrow. "Which makes you the master, I take it?"

He smiles, lifts her hand. "I'll leave that up to you to decide," he says, then slowly sucks one of her fingers into his mouth.

* * *

They're lying side by side on their backs in bed, propped up on pillows, Mark with an arm folded behind his head.

He is very pretty. For a man. Besides that, she finds herself liking him. It's very hard not to like the person who held you while your heart burst and then gave you the second best sex of your life. Especially when all he got out of it so far was a perfunctory blow job and hasn't yet complained. It's very hard not to like the person who ordered the hot chocolate you're now sipping.

"Eight," she teases. "Out of ten, that is." She smiles when his eyebrows rise at the imperfect score.

"Some people have no taste or discernment." He smiles back and drinks from his cup of hot chocolate.

It's almost like being with a friend.

"So who is it?" She recalls the conversation back in the bar that started all this, their almost-friendship now giving her permission to ask. "The one you're not getting over?"

He hesitates, traces a finger around the rim of his cup. "Lexie," he says. "Lexie Grey."

"Lexie Grey?" Erica can't quite place her, but then she remembers. Meredith Grey's sister. "The little intern who held her hand up for every question?!"

Mark laughs softly. "There's more to her when you get to know her." He doesn't look at her.

"You loved her?" she asks.

"I guess," he sighs. It's followed with a slow nod.

"I loved Callie," she offers, her voice so quiet that even she can barely hear it. Her heart still catches. But this absurdly healing sequence of events has helped her. She wonders if it's doing the same for him.

She clears her throat. "You can . . . we can . . . if you want to."

He turns to look at her now. "You're a lesbian," he challenges, sort of. But the voice and the smirk (which really is quite alluring once you get used to it) are gearing up for more sex.

"Sleep with me anyway," she says.

* * *

"I bought a house." He's lying on his side, arm draped across her waist. "You should see the backyard. It's the size of Montana. I'm not kidding." He pauses. "It's kind of big when you're on your own, but . . ." He smiles – half sadly, half with pleasure because he clearly likes this house and its huge backyard.

"But you're moving on," she supplies, sharing the confidence he's given her. "Because that's what people do."

He sits up halfway and reaches for his now cold hot chocolate. "To moving on, Erica," he says, lifting the cup towards her.

"Moving on, Mark." She picks up her own cup and clinks it against his.

* * *

"Dr. Hahn," he says, shouldering his bag. The conference is wrapping up and they are saying their goodbyes in the lobby.

"Dr. Sloan."

"If you need me," his lips find that smirk again, "there's a big plastics conference in Toronto in the fall."

"I am a cardiothoracic surgeon. Nothing on God's earth would make me attend a plastics conference." They share a smile. "And you'll have a bad back from all that yard work and an eight is about as low as I can tolerate."

She means they're both going to be okay.

"Ten," he says, winking, and she rolls her eyes. "Ten and you know it."

She watches him leave through the revolving glass doors. As he disappears into a cab, her gaze connects with a pretty woman signing up for conference proceedings at the reception table.

It's the first time since Callie that she's checked out a woman and enjoyed it.


End file.
